


A Liminal Stage

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: KNBxNBA, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 08:54:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10659201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: It’s stupid to complicate things by thinking about what they are and aren’t—friends, fuck-buddies, teammates, roommates, maybe that doesn’t cover quite all of it but who’s asking for a complete analysis?(KNBxNBA)





	A Liminal Stage

**Author's Note:**

> somehow mura ends up with aomine in cleveland before this story starts

It’s easier getting up right after to clean them off when Daiki’s still sweating from both the sex itself and from being pressed closely against Atsushi the whole time, the warm friction of skin on skin and already-gathering sweat on sweat. The cool washcloth feels damn good as he rubs it on his skin; Atsushi sighs at the touch and curls into Daiki’s hand like a plant twisting toward a particular slant of sunlight. By the time Daiki’s done, he feels as sleepy as Atsushi looks, and if there was any room on this side of the bed he’d crawl in and fall asleep next to him. His feet are starting to feel a little cold against the floorboards, and it’s right about now (as always) that his body decides to register that it’s naked and in the middle of the winter in Cleveland, and Atsushi’s window is open.

Daiki squares his shoulders, uncurling his toes and standing up. Atsushi doesn’t respond, either having decided this is too boring to elicit anything or just too close to sleep. Daiki tosses the washcloth at the hamper across the room; it goes in just like an easy layup. He crosses his arms over his chest as he leaves Atsushi’s room, padding down the hall to his own, bigger, more decorated, more lived-in (Atsushi’s room, despite him occupying it for half a season already, is still essentially a half-unpacked guest room). They never do it in here; Atsushi always tugs them the other way down the hall; Daiki always lets him. Maybe he pulls because doesn’t want to fall asleep in Daiki’s bed; maybe Daiki doesn’t pull back because he doesn’t want him to leave.

He thinks about staying as he drifts off to sleep, pulling the covers around him like tissue paper in a gift bag. It’s not all that warm, but he’s still got enough of the post-sex high to pull him down the rest of the way and make him forget about his discomfort, physical and not.

Daiki drives them to the facility for practice, tapping the steering wheel to the beat while the station ID jingle plays on the local traffic station (it’s catchy; he knows it by heart at this point but it still gets stuck in his head). Atsushi’s got the seat reclined all the way, spilling crumbs down his front (and into the floor mat probably) from a pistachio muffin that’s colored a revolting shade of green all over. It’s stupid to complicate things by thinking about what they are and aren’t—friends, fuck-buddies, teammates, roommates, maybe that doesn’t cover quite all of it but who’s asking for a complete analysis? Daiki almost misses the turnoff and has to swerve hard to make it just in time; Atsushi almost drops his muffin and glares. Daiki swears under his breath, cruising slowly down the road and into the lot to his space and slotting the car in. The road is more important than this bullshit.

Practice is normal; they run plays and goof off when the coaches are trying to instill something particular in the rookies; Daiki bumps Atsushi’s elbow and points to the hoop and Atsushi wrinkles his head. He still hasn’t let Daiki goad him into an impromptu dunk contest yet; it’s proving to be way more of a challenge than Daiki had thought it would be (which isn’t a bad thing; Daiki’s going to get him someday).

The atmosphere as they drive back is the same, Daiki actually focusing on the road and making all the right turns on the familiar route and Atsushi playing some game on his phone. They share a pack of beef jerky from the pantry and go their separate ways to nap. Daiki’s been feeling sleepy, the same way he always gets, but the words are hammering at the inside of his brain too fast for him to rest. What are he and Atsushi? What does he want them to be? Is he like the hero in Ryou’s latest manga, lying on the school roof and realizing that the cute girl in his class is a little more than just that?

It’s a shitty comparison; he’s had years and layers of feelings and experiences with Atsushi; this isn’t a shallow crush that’s about to dry up like a puddle in the spring after the sun comes out. He knows Atsushi’s cute (well, some of the time) and he knows Atsushi’s difficult and still attractive, stubborn and good at blocks, better at dunks, very good at blow jobs, way more than the sum of a list of traits and skills. Atsushi’s Atsushi, and what they have right now is enjoyable and malleable. What if Daiki had stayed? What if he’d pushed? What if he’d pulled Atsushi down the hall once, twice, fallen asleep with him? What if he does that next time? What if he stays tonight? (If they do it tonight, and don’t just sleep straight through to four in the morning again because there’s no game and end up buying a movie on demand and baking brownies from the mix in the back of the cupboard.) Is it really that much of a leap?

At some point he does fall asleep, waking up to total darkness outside the window and Atsushi leaning against the doorframe with a piece of paper in his hand. He’s in silhouette from the hallway light and Daiki has to squint to make out any of him, can’t quite see the expression on his face still.

“We’re getting pizza,” he says. “One extra meat, one half-ham, half hot peppers.”

“Sounds good,” says Daiki, burying under the covers.

“I’ll eat it all if you fall back asleep,” says Atsushi (and he would, too).

Daiki falls back into a hazy half-sleep but manages to rouse himself before the pizza gets there, splashes some water on his face and squints at the light in the living room. Atsushi’s looking at him, almost carefully, in a way he’d deny as Daiki’s overactive imagination if he’d gotten called out on it. His hair is pulled back into a messy half-bun it’s not quite long enough for, strands sticking out every which way. He’s draped over the arm of the couch like a dog on a hot porch, waiting for relief (which, to him, is an extra-large pizza). His eyes follow Daiki as he walks over to the coffee table and picks up an old _Sports Illustrated_ that he’s already flipped through three times without really reading, like he’s challenging Daiki to say something.

He’s not challenging Daiki to say just anything, or even to ask what he’s doing; he’s looking for something and Daiki’s not quite sure what it is, even after he sits on the couch next to Atsushi, feet propped up on the table, flipping through the same features on figure skating and college football that he doesn’t really want to read. The phone rings.

Atsushi swats at Daiki to go get the pizzas.

“I’m not your servant; it’s my fucking house,” says Daiki, halfway up off the couch.

“Okay,” says Atsushi.

They eat straight from the box, extra-large slices looking small folded in Atsushi’s hand, flour and grease sticking to their fingers as they make a pile of crumpled napkins in the corner of the box with Daiki’s crusts (there is no remark from Atsushi about Daiki wasting food or acting like a kid this time; perhaps he’s finally given up).

They crack open cans of beer in the kitchen to wash out the grease from their tongues, leaning over the counter together without talking. The relative silence is comfortable, leading them down a familiar but narrow path that ends in Atsushi’s bedroom door. Daiki doesn’t pull away.

Atsushi comes first but finishes Daiki with the same intensity in his hand; they lie there sticky with sweat and come for a few minutes afterward and Daiki wonders if Atsushi’s asleep already.

“Hey,” Atsushi says, kicking Daiki’s shin. “We’re kind of gross.”

(That’s a no, then).

Daiki’s already pretty cold by the time he’s halfway through wiping them both off; this time Atsushi watches him, leaning more deliberately, more like a creeping vine than a tree, into Daiki’s touch. Daiki tosses the washcloth at the hamper; this time it lands against the side and falls against the floor. It could be worse, Daiki supposes.

He pulls aside the sheet next to Atsushi; Atsushi opens his mouth to protest the cold air on his skin or something, but Daiki slides in next to him before he can, pushing lightly at his lower back.

“Move over.”

“Fine,” says Atsushi.

Daiki drapes an arm across his waist, and a few seconds later Atsushi tucks it under his elbow, wriggling back against him, warm and snug. They’re going to have to talk about this at some point, and maybe they should have already, but not now—it’s too comfortable not to fall asleep staring into the broad expanse of Atsushi’s back and feeling Atsushi’s breathing deepen against his skin.


End file.
